


One Time Only

by AZGirl



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 11:04:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2346152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/pseuds/AZGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan ran to the infirmary, everyone he encountered along the way refusing to look him in the eye. Though the Musketeers regiment was about to lose one of its own, d'Artagnan was losing a part of his family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Time Only

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place post 1.10 Musketeers Don’t Die Easily.
> 
> Not a medical professional; please excuse any inaccuracies that were included for the sake of the story.
> 
> Warning: You may want to have a few tissues available while reading this…(sorry).

**ooooooo**

“All for one and one for all  
My brother and my friends  
What fun we have  
The time we share  
Brothers ‘til the end.” – Author Unknown

**ooooooo**

The closer and closer d’Artagnan got to the garrison, the stronger and stronger his feeling of foreboding got. He wanted to spur his horse into a gallop and get back to his friends as soon as possible, but two things were holding him back. This first was that he was currently riding through the crowded streets of Paris and couldn’t risk hurting someone in his haste. The other reason was that he was still seconded to Michaud’s company and didn’t have the same leeway as he did when he worked with his friends. 

Athos and the others had loudly protested his temporary reassignment, but Tréville had insisted, saying that d’Artagnan needed experience going on missions with other Musketeers. When he’d left, d’Artagnan had looked back at his friends and had the bad feeling that he would never see them again. 

Because of his lingering apprehension over the welfare of his friends, he had difficulties concentrating on his assignment. He was even reprimanded once for his lack of concentration, but in the end, he managed to acquit himself well and saved the life of one of his fellow Musketeers. 

On the way back to Paris, about a day and a half before his group’s scheduled return, Michaud had decided to rest the horses for an hour which gave them time to relax. Because d’Artagnan hadn’t been sleeping well, he took the opportunity to catch a nap in the shade of a large maple tree. 

After a time, he sat bolt upright, his hand clutching at a spot on his chest. A sharp, intense pain right over one of his lungs had awakened him but rapidly faded away once he was aware of his surroundings. One of his fellow Musketeers had noticed and came over to check if he was alright. He reassured Poirier that he was fine and that it had only been a nightmare. What he’d said had been completely true, _he_ was fine. But though it had only been a dream, he felt that his friends were in trouble and that one had fallen, perhaps to never get up again. 

The brief snatches that he could remember of his dream earlier in the day kept him awake long after his appointed watch time was over that night. He still hadn’t noticed his newfound habit of lifting a hand to cover the same spot on his chest that had pained him upon waking up from his nightmare. 

The next day, he was impatient to get back but was hampered by the pace Michaud had set. D’Artagnan had to force himself to not break ranks and rush back to the city. He did not want to face Tréville’s wrath, or Athos’s, over a rash action inspired by a gut feeling. 

Finally, he and his fellow Musketeers had arrived back at the garrison. As they dismounted and Michaud went up to the captain to report, all action immediately ceased in the courtyard. For a moment, it was if someone had frozen time. Then someone made a noise, and suddenly everyone started moving again though no one would meet his eyes. 

His sense of foreboding was now heading towards outright panic over the wellbeing of his friends. He was having difficulty swallowing passed the lump in his throat that had formed in the last minute. The fact that none of his three friends had been there to greet him only made his apprehension worse. 

Just as he handed his horse off to Jacques, he heard his name and looked up to see Tréville beckoning him up to his office. On his way up the stairs, he passed Michaud who put a hand on his shoulder as he went by. When the older man also refused to look at him directly, it felt like a stone had been dropped into his stomach, and he wondered if he was about to find out that he’d lost his brothers. He didn’t know if he could handle losing his family again. 

When he entered Tréville’s office, he could see the worry and grief lining his captain’s features. For several long moments, he watched Tréville gather and shuffle papers around on his desk as if the older man was mustering the courage to speak. 

D’Artagnan, never the most patient of his brothers, outright asked, “Are they dead?” 

Tréville looked up at the bluntness of his question and answered, “No.” 

His captain’s answer should have given some degree of relief, but it didn’t now that d’Artagnan seemingly had confirmation that something had indeed gone horribly wrong. 

“Then…?” he began when the captain still seemed reluctant to speak further but trailed off unsure what exactly to ask. 

“Athos,” Tréville replied, looking as if it pained him to say the name out loud for fear of making the situation more real. 

D’Artagnan’s legs suddenly became unable to hold him up and if a chair hadn’t been right there, he would have sunk to the floor. 

“When?” he choked out through a clogged throat and tears building in his eyes. 

“A day and a half ago,” Tréville replied with a dejected sigh. 

D’Artagnan’s head snapped up in surprise and alarm and his hand unconsciously rose to hover over his chest. A day and a half? Wasn’t that when he’d been awakened by that brief but intense pain in his ribcage? Had God somehow allowed him to be with his best friend in that small way as Athos began his journey on to the next world? 

He would rather have been there _with_ his friend and _for_ his friend as he had been in that nightmare. If he had truly been there, then maybe he could have prevented the death of a brother he never thought he’d wanted or even know he’d have until he’d met Athos. 

He may have met his other two brothers first, but it was Athos with whom he had truly connected and bonded with; it was Athos who had shown him that he still needed family. Most people didn’t understand how the stoic, older man and the young pup (as he was sometimes grudgingly referred) got along so well. At first, Athos had kept his distance, resisting d’Artagnan’s overtures of friendship, but Aramis and Porthos had conspired against their friend. They had continued to invite d’Artagnan into their lives and eventually Athos accepted that the younger man was there to stay. 

Aramis and Porthos must be devastated by the coming loss; Athos was their brother long before he came onto the scene. They’d fought together, they’d drank together, and even though their every action said that d’Artagnan was one of them, there were still times that he felt like he was on the outside looking in. 

It was the machinations of Milady – he refused to label that witch as Athos’s wife – that had brought he and Athos closer together as friends and moved them firmly onto the path towards becoming brothers. In killing Thomas, she had set Athos on course towards the Musketeers and their eventual meeting. Years later, without her attempt to burn him alive in his own mansion, then the two of them might not be as close as they are now. 

What would he do without Athos’s steady, calming presence in his life? He would still have Aramis and Porthos, but they would all be diminished by the loss of their friend. He was their leader and their brother and he was wholly irreplaceable in their lives. 

He was already feeling Athos’s passing deep in his soul and knew his two remaining friends must be feeling just as destroyed right now. He would have to be strong for them. Though the youngest, he felt like it would be up to him to keep them together, to keep them going, even when all he wanted to do was curl up in a dark corner and rage against a cruel world. 

“D’Artagnan!” a voice yelled his name next to his head as a hand on his shoulder startled him back to the present. 

The Gascon had the distinct impression that it was not the first time his captain had called his name as he looked into the older man’s worried eyes. 

“Are you with me now?” Tréville asked. The young Musketeer nodded jerkily and tried but failed to surreptitiously wipe the tear away that had fallen onto his cheek. 

The grief-heavy eyes softened a moment as his captain resumed speaking. “He’s in the infirmary—.” 

A tiny spark of hope where there should be none burst into being in his chest. If Athos was in the infirmary, then there must be a chance of survival no matter how slight; perhaps the situation was not so dire as he’d once thought. 

D’Artagnan stood so abruptly that the top of his head almost collided with Tréville’s chin. Calling out a hasty apology as he made his way out, he was just about to reach the exit when an arm caught his. 

“He’s dying, d’Artagnan,” the older man reminded, perhaps having caught a glimpse of his newborn hope. “It’s only a matter of time.” 

His hope should have flamed out and died at that pronouncement, but it didn’t. 

He nodded his understanding and left, hurrying towards the infirmary and his dying best friend. He practically ran to the infirmary; all the Musketeers he encountered rushed to get out of his way and all refused to look him in the eye. They knew just how close the four were to each other and knew just how far their relationship went beyond brothers-in-arms to brothers of the heart. 

The Musketeers regiment may be losing one of its greatest soldiers ever, but Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan were losing an integral part of their family. 

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan threw open the door to the infirmary and barely remembered to catch it before it slammed into the wall. The two closest beds were empty but the third and farthest away was obviously occupied; he couldn’t see passed Aramis and Porthos to his dying brother. 

Even from behind, Porthos and Aramis looked exhausted and defeated and broken-hearted; he felt the same. He stepped forward just as his two friends turned from their vigil over their mortally wounded friend. 

His older brothers met him halfway across the room and enveloped him in a tight, three-way embrace. Briefly, his mind went to a time not so long ago when it had been a four-way embrace. He sagged little at the thought that they would never be able to do that again. Aramis and Porthos caught him and held him up, trying to comfort him the best they could under the circumstances. 

They remained locked together for another long moment, enough time for him to regain his footing, before stepping back. Finally, he could see Athos on the bed in front of him. 

Porthos and Aramis each kept a hand on his shoulder as he moved closer to his mentor. Athos was extremely pale and his lips were tinged blue. His friend was barely breathing, and he could hear a wet, wheezing sound with each attempt Athos made to bring air into his lungs. Athos had always seemed larger than life to him, yet now the man on the bed seemed impossibly small. 

The bandages around his chest were slightly stained with blood; the location of the blood was exactly where he’d felt the painful twinge in his chest over a day ago. His legs already felt incapable of keeping him standing at the sight of his dying mentor, but when he saw that bloodstain, he had to lock his knees or risk crumpling to the ground. How…? 

“It was an ambush,” Porthos began explaining. “Athos went down with the first shot fired. Me and Aramis managed to send them all to Hell, but…” 

Porthos paused, not able to continue; he looked to Aramis, who continued, “When I saw the wound… I knew it was a mortal one, but I had try helping him anyway. There was so much bl—blood…” The older man paused and bowed his head slightly, likely overcome with the memory of such a gory surgery on one of his best friends. D’Artagnan lifted a hand to the one Aramis still had on his shoulder and squeezed it. Aramis looked to him with an expression of gratitude on his face as he continued to recount what had happened only a day ago. “I got the ball out, his rib deflected it, kept it from entering his lung, but I think it was damaged. He’s….” 

D’Artagnan nodded, acknowledging what Aramis couldn’t bring himself to say. Athos was… 

Athos was dying. 

Just minutes ago, he had thought that he had lost all of his family and been too late to say goodbye, but now he was being given that chance with his best friend and he didn’t know what to say. What could he possibly say to someone who…? 

“He’s awakened several times,” Porthos interrupted his thoughts. “He’s not been able to talk, but you know how expressive ‘is eyebrows are.” 

D’Artagnan nodded with a barely-there smile on his face. Any other time the three of them would be mocking Athos for his ability to speak with his eyebrows, but none dared do so now. 

“A few times he’s looked passed us as if expecting someone else to be there. And when he would not find what he was looking for, Athos would shake his head and close his eyes. I think… I think he’s been waiting for you to come, d’Artagnan, before he….” 

Upon hearing that statement, d’Artagnan wanted to leave the infirmary and never return in hopes that Athos would continue to live. Then he saw just how difficult and painful it was for his brother to take a single breath, and he knew he couldn’t allow his selfish desire for his friend to live to prolong Athos’s agony any longer. 

Athos had held on to life beyond what should have been possible for such a wound just to see him one last time. He couldn’t, in good conscience, deny a dying man’s unspoken request no matter how much he wanted to. 

Porthos moved his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders and brought him in for a brief hug. “Go on,” he bade him. The older man removed his arm and gave him a slight push towards the bed. “We’ll give you some time alone with ‘im. Call for us when…” 

D’Artagnan was about to protest the offer, but then he realized that Aramis and Porthos had already had more than a day to say their goodbyes. They were giving him an opportunity to say goodbye to a man who had become not only his mentor and brother-in-arms, but also his confidant, best friend, and brother of the heart. Aramis and Porthos were giving him this time alone with Athos even if it meant there was a chance that they might not be there at the time of Athos’s passing. Yet again the thought that he didn’t deserve such men in his life, let alone as brothers, floated through his mind. 

The catching of the door’s latch brought him out of his thoughts, and he found himself staring at Athos, unable to move any closer to the bed. 

He had no idea how long he stood there before there was a catch in Athos’s breathing as if he’d skipped taking a breath. Having heard that catch before, he knew what it meant – it was almost time. That knowledge enabled him to move forward towards the bed. 

D’Artagnan knelt next to the narrow bed and gently picked up Athos’s hand. He almost lost his grip on it when he realized how cold and clammy it was. 

“I’m—I’m here Ath-Athos,” he brokenly said around the lump in his throat. “I’m here. The others said you were waiting for me and…” A sob tore from his throat and he couldn’t hold back his grief any longer. 

Fat tears rolled down his face in waves as he sobbed his heart out for the man dying before him. He recalled the catalyst of their first meeting, and his grief doubled at the thought of losing yet another person so important to him. He had thought his father’s death was meant to bring him to this new family of his; he never expected to lose one of his brothers so soon after finding them. 

As his tears continued to flow, D’Artagnan shifted so that he was sitting down on the floor, his hand still grasping Athos’s and his head bent down to rest on his older brother’s shoulder. 

He willed all he felt for Athos to flow between their points of contact, not knowing if could ever adequately express it out loud or even if he would ever get the chance. Awe. Respect. Gratitude. Brotherhood. Friendship. Family. Love. All of that and so much more ran through his head as he brought their joined hands up to rest on the uninjured side of Athos’s chest in a sort of hug, but was also a way for him to monitor his brother’s stilted breathing. 

When he finally seemed to run out of tears, he lifted his head, expecting to see Athos looking back at him. D’Artagnan was dreading seeing his friend’s eyes open, for he knew the next time would be the last. However, Athos’s eyes remained closed, and he couldn’t help the relief that tore through him even as guilt followed directly after. He wanted Athos to live so badly that he was willing to let his brother suffer immense pain, but he couldn’t help himself despite his earlier resolve. 

D’Artagnan lowered his head back down to Athos’s shoulder and closed his eyes. His heart and soul were broken and grieving yet that spark of hope he’d felt in Tréville’s office had not ebbed. 

“ _Please,_ ” he begged, recalling his last word to his father. 

_Please live. Please don’t leave me alone. Please stay._

_Please don’t die, Athos_. 

ooooooo 

He had no idea how much time was passing outside the infirmary, but inside time seemed to stretch on for hours and hours. 

The next time he looked up to check on Athos, d’Artagnan found that he was no longer in the infirmary. Instead, he found himself standing at the very edge of his property back home in Lupiac. 

He had been practicing all that his father had been teaching him about wielding a sword out where he could not easily be seen. Alexandre d’Artagnan had been reluctantly teaching his only son all he knew based on his experiences in the regular army as a very young man. D’Artagnan knew that he was meant to take over the family farm someday, but at only 14 years old that didn’t mean he didn’t hope for a different destiny. 

A scream suddenly broke the relative silence of the morning and was followed by the sound of a gunshot, which caused the birds in the nearby trees to take flight. Without considering the consequences, he rushed toward the nearby disturbance, uncertain and almost uncaring of what danger he would find. 

What he did find was a covered wagon with a masked man pointing his sword at a frightened, yet tired-looking, woman. On the ground next to the wagon was a middle-aged man clutching at his shoulder; it was apparent that the gunshot he’d heard had found its mark. He couldn’t yet hear what the woman was saying to the masked man but he assumed she was begging for her and her husband’s lives. 

Unsure how to handle the situation, he slowed and quieted his approach. The bandit was about to run his blade through the woman when an ear-splitting cry distracted the man. A baby! 

D’Artagnan rushed forward heedless of the danger he was now in and engaged the bandit in a sword fight. The older man was stronger than him, but he was agile and young which evened the odds slightly. His lack of experience, however, was what cost him in the end. 

He’d managed to nick the bandit’s arm, but the older man maneuvered him so that d’Artagnan eventually lost his footing and fell to the ground, his sword arm held painfully down by a large, smelly foot. The bandit mocked him for a moment before raising his sword to kill him. D’Artagnan closed his eyes in expectation of the blow to come but instead a gunshot split the air around them. Opening his eyes, he saw a look of confusion on the bandit’s face as the man reached towards his back even as his eyes clouded over and he fell to the ground dead. 

Stunned at the turn of events and attempting to reconcile the fact that he had not died, he sat frozen to the spot, trying to calm his breathing. After a few moments, a woman came rushing up to him, asking in broken, heavily accented French if he was ‘of health.’ At first, he didn’t understand what she meant, but when he did, he nodded and thanked her. 

The woman then started speaking rapidly in her native tongue, shaking her head and helping him to stand. That’s when he came face-to-face with the injured man who had a discharged pistol in his hand. He introduced himself in perfect Gascon, explaining that he had been returning home after being away from France for some time, and that he had been blessed to have found a wife along his travels and healthy baby boy delivered only a month prior. 

At his wife’s urging, Etienne then began translating what she was saying to him. Natasha was thankful for what d’Artagnan had done despite the great risk to himself. She said that it was the way of her people to owe a life for a life, but as they would probably never see each other again, she offered a boon instead. 

One time, and one time only, would he be able to stay the hand of Death for someone he loved. The only caveat was that the person who he wanted to live’s death could not be vital to the course of his destiny. If that were the case, then the boon would not work. 

When Natasha had finished speaking, she hugged d’Artagnan tight and then kissed each cheek and then his forehead. The kiss to his forehead had felt like a benediction, and when she stepped back from him he felt slightly light-headed, but he attributed the feelings to the ebbing of the rush of energy that had flowed through his body since he had first heard Natasha’s scream. 

The baby started to cry again and Natasha rushed back towards the wagon. Etienne shook d’Artagnan’s hand, thanking him profusely and apologizing for his wife’s superstitious ways. D’Artagnan shrugged and said that he was glad that he could help in any way he could. 

He helped Natasha bind Etienne’s wound after she had comforted her son, then watched as the couple boarded their wagon and made to leave. Just as Etienne urged the horses to go passed him, Natasha turned back towards him and, in her broken French, reminded: “One time only.” 

The scene shifted and it was suddenly years later, when on one rainy night outside of an inn, d’Artagnan would remember Natasha’s Boon and desperately try to use it on his dying father. When it didn’t work, he railed against himself for believing in a superstitious woman’s ridiculous tales. Angry with himself and the world, he remembered his father’s last word and steeled himself to avenge his father’s murder. 

At the time, he had no idea that he would be confronting the man who would eventually become his best friend. At the time, he had no idea that he would gain three older brothers and a calling to become a Musketeer. 

Yet again, his surroundings shifted and he was a spectator as a gunshot rang out and caught Athos in the chest, causing him to land heavily on the ground. 

Somehow, as Aramis and Porthos fought off their ambushers, d’Artagnan was able to shift Athos over onto his back. To staunch the blood flow, he carefully pressed a hand over the wound on the older man’s chest; not wanting to drive the broken rib that he knew was there into his friend’s lung. 

Athos flinched and opened his eyes at the increased pressure on his chest. When he recognized d’Artagnan, confusion warred with the pained expression on his face. 

They locked eyes and Athos raised an eyebrow in question. D’Artagnan shook his head; he had no idea how he was there with Athos at this moment when he should be a hundred miles away with Michaud’s men. 

What he did know was that his friend was dying. 

Tears began to well up in his eyes and he leaned forward so that his head rested on Athos’s shoulder. 

_“Please,_ ” he begged in a ragged whisper. “ _Please live. Please don’t leave me alone. Please stay. Please don’t die, Ath—_.” 

ooooooo 

A hand on his shoulder startled him and he realized that he had fallen asleep at Athos’s side. 

He looked up and into the concerned eyes of Aramis and Porthos. 

“We started to get worried when you didn’t come get us,” Porthos said. 

D’Artagnan suddenly remembered why he was alone with Athos. How could he fall asleep and miss the passing of his dear friend? 

His head whipped back to Athos’s face, and from behind him Aramis said, “He’s still alive. God only knows how, but he’s still alive.” 

That spark of hope d’Artagnan had been carrying since Tréville’s office caught flame, and the fire continued to grow until there was a roaring blaze of confidence within all three of them that Athos would _not_ die. 

Athos was going to live. 

ooooooo 

Several weeks later, it was d’Artagnan’s turn to make sure Athos did not overdo it while sitting out in the sun of the garrison’s courtyard. They were sitting side-by-side cleaning weapons, and while certain movements continued to pain Athos, he was getting along better and better every day. 

After a while, Athos’s movements began slowing down, a tell-tale sign that he needed to rest, but d’Artagnan had sensed earlier that Athos had something on his mind and decided to wait a little longer for his friend to confide in him. 

It was a few minutes later when Athos lay a pistol down on the table and turned toward him. D’Artagnan finished what he was doing before meeting the older man’s gaze. 

“You were there,” Athos confidently declared, expecting d’Artagnan to know to what he was referring. 

D’Artagnan’s eyes widened in comprehension, but he decided to evade having that particular conversation. He didn’t want to chance anyone overhearing their conversation. 

“I think it’s past time for you to go back to your room for a rest,” he said, hoping that Athos wouldn’t argue with him about it – for once. 

Of course, it was not meant to be when Athos glared and raised a questioning eyebrow. D’Artagnan almost laughed at the remembrance of what Porthos had said about Athos’s ability to communicate with his eyebrows. The thought of the situation surrounding that pronouncement immediately sobered him. 

In reply, he raised his own eyebrow and nodded his head towards Athos’s room. Athos apparently had understood his message that they would talk about it upstairs and headed there without further complaint. 

ooooooo 

Athos stretched out on his bed and d’Artagnan, though his friend glared at him, helped him off with his boots. To avoid the conversation for a little longer, he fetched each of them a cup of wine. 

When he handed Athos his cup, his friend grabbed his wrist instead and said, “You. Were. There. You asked me to live.” 

D’Artagnan nodded uncertainly and sat down on the edge of Athos’s bed. Athos let go of his wrist and accepted the cup of wine from him, waiting for an explanation. 

The young Musketeer then proceeded to tell Athos the whole story, everything from the moment he woke up from that nap to the present day. As he told his story, he avoided looking at Athos, afraid that his brother would not believe him but relieved to finally share this burden with his best friend. 

When he finished his tale, except for one detail which was beyond almost his belief, he hung his head and lifted a hand to rub his face. D’Artagnan was mentally exhausted from reliving those desperate hours and afraid that Athos would reject him in some way for daring to imply that he’d had a hand in keeping the older man from dying. 

D’Artagnan felt a hand grasping his knee and he looked up. Athos smiled slightly and relief flooded through the young Gascon. How could he have ever doubted their bond of friendship and brotherhood? 

“Tell me,” he said. D’Artagnan’s face must have accurately conveyed his confusion, for Athos elaborated, “There’s something you’re not telling me.” 

Knowing Athos would not be satisfied by anything but full disclosure, d’Artagnan reached up to untie the laces of his shirt. He then pulled the fabric aside and turned more fully towards Athos. 

On his chest, there was a small bruise the size of a bullet, exactly matching the location of Athos’s entry wound. D’Artagnan hadn’t noticed it was there until two days after he’d returned to find Athos gravely injured. Aramis had kicked him out of the infirmary and Porthos had threatened him with forced compliance if he didn’t go get some sleep and some fresh clothes. 

D’Artagnan was amazed that the bruise was still visible after so long, but he’d noticed that as Athos had improved, his bruise had begun slowly fading. He couldn’t even begin to wrap his head around the mystery and didn’t believe Athos would be able to either. 

Athos’s face when he realized the implication of the bruise was one of perfect shock, and he reached up a hand to touch it. His hand lingered on it for a few moments before he shifted the hand to the back of d’Artagnan’s neck. 

With a slightly pained grunt, Athos pulled d’Artagnan forward until their foreheads touched. 

“Thank you,” he whispered with unparalleled sincerity and gratitude coloring his voice. 

“You lived,” d’Artagnan replied. “That is all the thanks I need.” 

**ooooooo**

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Author's Note:**

> This idea literally woke me up and I had to write it down while it was still fresh in my mind despite a real life deadline coming up. I finally had time to check this for errors in grammar, but with no beta, I’m sure some mistakes are still lurking about. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Also posted on fanfiction.net.


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